Heavenly

Whose prophecy is worthy
to invest our hearts, hands, minds?
If our world makes a circle — no end or beginning —
may we slip between a then and now?
 *
We sing Epiphany.
All the holy, all the empty,
all the sorrows filled with poetry,
with charging beasts of challenge
and slip ping back words.
I hear the Angels sing of Earth
as mud as muck, as fuckin’ murder in the womb,
as luck would have it,
as black streaks redact the wounds
of Heaven.
I hear the demons laugh,
snicker-snack akimbo,
hunker down to limbo to lindy hop
upon the prophet’s breath.
Such noise.
Such annoying brays and cagey whispers.
I would sleep, snore, evermore if they would
but diminish, allow silence to enfold. Instead,
the dream takes over, dissolves all sanity.
No morning (mourning)
(see, I can pun without baring to the Sun,
without dimension)(dementia — did I mention?).
Felled in heap of clay.
A poem should tell a story
but better,
straight out,
no fluff or frills.
Eyes locked to eyes
tongue to tongue
so there is no mistake.
 *
Gasping pure air between
precipice and space
wrapped in precious pleasure.
 *
The weight of the world.
The sadness of oceans.
The endless pain of life a’borning.
I am shaken; I am touched in that eternity.
If beauty demands sacrifice,
sacrifice demands such beauty.
.
.
.
Make Peace The Issue
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